Effigies (9 page)

“Aren’t they proud of their son the doctor?”

“Ma does look for reasons to mention that Ph.D., but she does worry about the people I have to associate with. Both my parents are pretty sure most archaeologists are graverobbers. Besides me, of course. That’s why she invited you all to dinner. She wanted to check you out.” When Oka Hofobi smiled, his dark hooded eyes looked very much like Joe’s.

“Now I’m afraid to look your mother in the face.”

“Then don’t look behind you. She’s walking this way. But don’t worry about Ma. She likes you. In fact, she told me to ask you out to a movie.”

Faye sneaked a glance over her shoulder. Mrs. Nail was a hundred feet away, but moving fast for a woman of her bulk. Oka Hofobi kept talking. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing worth seeing at the theater in Philadelphia, but why don’t I beat my mother to the question she’s hustling over here to ask? Would you like to stay for dinner?”

Thirty seconds later, Mrs. Nail asked her the same question.

Dinner was very tasty. Oka Hofobi had exaggerated when he said that his mother fried everything. She also stewed vegetables thoroughly and well. Sitting, once again, in the cozy, wood-paneled dining room, Faye had been made to feel welcome by the friendly woman, who had quizzed her politely about her work in a friendly, parental way.

About every five minutes, Oka Hofobi interrupted, urging his mother to share some more of her grandfather’s tales. Maybe he was just trying to steer the conversation away from the personal questions his mother liked to ask—“You live alone with young Mr. Mantooth? But you’re not dating?”—or maybe he knew just how much Faye enjoyed the woman’s old stories.

“Later,” Mrs. Nail kept saying. “I’ll tell the tales, and I’m so glad you want to hear them, but they’re better told when the sun gets low.”

“Ma would be happier if we’d just go outside and light a campfire. That way, her ghost stories would be much more effective.”

Mrs. Nail swatted a hand in the air, as if to smack her lastborn on the shoulder, but the blow connected with nothing but air. Faye didn’t think she was capable of swatting a fly.

“You used to run screaming to your room when I told the story of ‘The Girl and The Devil.’ And let’s not even talk about ‘The White People of the Water’…” She turned a wide, warm smile on Faye.

Her hospitality made Mr. Nail’s silence all the more glaring. Faye guessed that he would prefer not to eat with someone he regarded as a graverobber, and she could see his point.

Mrs. Nail had been so thrilled to hear that Faye’s great-great-great-great-grandmother was half-Creek that she’d felt like a long-lost cousin—but a very distant cousin who still might be a suitable match for a son who should have gotten married long before the clock tolled midnight on his thirtieth birthday. Mrs. Nail didn’t have to speak that concern out loud. The photos of children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews that papered the walls delivered her message quite well.

If Faye had been a trifle uncomfortable with the way the dinner table conversation constantly veered back to matters of marriage and children—she’d been told more than once that two more Nail grandchildren would arrive before the end of the year, and the eldest grandson planned to marry immediately after his college graduation—she quickly learned that there were far worse topics of discussion. For example, any mention of Oka Hofobi’s work was a distinctly terrible idea.

When Mrs. Nail asked, “Did you two have a nice day at work?”, Faye made the ghastly mistake of actually answering her. Later, when she had time to think about the question, she realized that it was just the conversational tactic of a meddling mother strategically highlighting their similar interests. Faye, in her straightforward way, presumed that the woman was actually interested.

“We found evidence today that your property was the site of a toolmaking center a couple of thousand years ago. Pretty cool, don’t you think? Of course, Oka Hofobi had been telling us that all along, so this just makes him look like a genius.”

“I can’t see any reason to dig up my ancestors’ goods, just to prove something you already know,” Mr. Nail rumbled. “And I don’t think people should keep telling my son he’s a genius, either. Look where it’s gotten him.”

Faye wanted to point out that they had disturbed nothing more than a little bit of trash, in the form of stone chips, but it wouldn’t have helped. Mr. Nail knew as well as she did that they could find personal treasures tomorrow—jewelry, art, religious objects. Certainly, they could find bones. Faye knew that Dr. Mailer would rigidly adhere to the laws governing the discovery of human burials, but it would be too late, from Mr. Nail’s point of view. His ancestors’ rest would have already been disturbed.

Oka Hofobi pushed his chair back. “What would you like me to do? Wander in the woods until I meet a magic spirit that’ll tell me what to do with my life? Well, maybe I did. Did you ever ask me
why
I do what I do?”

Oka Hofobi was rising to his feet, ready to stalk out of the room, but his father beat him to it. The older man slammed the hall door behind him, leaving his son half-crouched at the table. Oka Hofobi awkwardly lowered himself back into his chair, saying, “Well, that was fun. Maybe we can consider it a dress rehearsal for the Tribal Council meeting. I’m betting they pretty much agree with Pa. Only there are twelve of them. We’ll be taking flak from all sides.”

Faye got out of the back seat of the Nails’ minivan at the Tribal Council Hall and slid the door shut behind her. She’d enjoyed their drive through the reservation, probably because Mr. Nail had decided to drive separately, in his own truck. Time spent with Mrs. Nail and Oka Hofobi alone felt like time spent among newfound friends.

The reservation, with its material trappings of the modern Choctaws, had been an effective setting for Mrs. Nail’s stories. The old tales simply flowed out of the woman, and the language they were told in varied from story to story. It was as if she were channeling the spirit of the person who had originally told the tale to her. Or maybe this was just what a gifted storyteller did—let the story tell itself the in the best language possible.

Faye would have felt crass taking notes, but she’d once known a very talented oral historian named Carmen Martinez. When Faye got back to the hotel, she was going to write down every scrap of every story that she could recall. It was the least she could do for Carmen’s memory.

Outside the van’s windows, Faye saw that evidence of the Choctaws’ growing prosperity was everywhere. Mrs. Nail and Oka Hofobi had proudly driven her past the neon-lit casinos and the brand-spanking-new fire hall where Davis worked. Choctaw-owned businesses were poised along the highway to sell gasoline and groceries and souvenirs to the legions of tourists drawn by the resorts.

Turning off the main highway, they drove through the industrial park that housed the tribe’s manufacturing interests. Entering the portion of the reservation devoted to tribal government, Faye saw one building after another that advertised the efforts being made at social and economic change. These buildings housed agencies dedicated to public transportation, housing, employment, and health. Near the Choctaw Justice Complex, also brand-spanking-new, Oka Hofobi took a detour so that Faye could see new housing developments filled with spacious houses on large lots.

“They just can’t build housing fast enough,” Mrs. Nail said, “and it’s hard on the young people. A lot of single people live with their parents while they wait their turn. Families have priority, so you just about can’t get reservation housing until you get married. Davis has been waiting a long time since his divorce.”

“And you, Oka Hofobi?” Faye asked.

“If I can keep getting contracts to do work around here, I may just buy a place near Ma and Pa. I like it out there.”

Near the governmental center, some of the reservation’s buildings were older, showing that the tribe’s economic progress had come in waves. The Tribal Council Hall was one of them. Smaller and less grand than the tribal offices that stood right next door, the Council Hall had a more intimate feel, but Faye was intimidated, nonetheless. Seeing Mr. Nail park his truck and walk alone into the hall troubled her even more. He couldn’t abide even being in the van with her? Or, even worse, maybe he couldn’t stand the company of his own son.

She and Oka Hofobi and his mother joined the rest of the archaeological crew in the Council Hall, a room that would have held a much bigger crowd. Sheriff Rutland walked in a moment later. Mr. Nail had chosen a chair in the far back corner of the room. If anybody was going to sit beside him, Faye judged that it would be because they walked across the room and sat there on purpose.

Twenty seconds after Faye made that judgment, Davis sauntered in and did that very thing. He nodded at Mrs. Nail, but never even glanced at his brother.

The array of chairs reserved for council members was a trifle intimidating. At precisely seven-thirty, the members filed in and the Chief called the meeting to order.

“The extraordinary events of the past few days give us cause for concern. The mound that Carroll Calhoun tried to destroy is not on tribal land. Neither is the site being excavated by Dr. Mailer’s team. Carroll Calhoun was not killed on Choctaw land. We have no jurisdiction over these issues, but I think it is obvious that they concern us. If we can assist in your murder investigation in any way, Sheriff, please ask.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now. Our Council has a committee on tribal culture that is best suited to discuss our concerns related to archaeological activities. I’ll let their chair speak.”

A handsome woman in her mid-forties took the floor. “Sheriff, can you clarify the law related to the mound on the Calhoun property? We consider it an important part of our heritage. What are our rights if his widow decides to finish what he started?”

“I’ve had some lawyers checking out that very question, and you won’t like the answer.” As the sheriff rose and spoke, she looked at each council member in turn. “When human remains are found, some extremely restrictive laws kick in to protect the burial and the artifacts found with it. This is not the case here. There is no evidence that this is a burial mound, so your rights are quite limited, and so is my jurisdiction. No,” she said, looking back at the Chief. “That’s not exactly true. Our rights are not limited in the case. The truth is that we have no rights. If the new owner of that property, Mr. Calhoun’s widow, decides to bulldoze that mound, then she can do it.”

The councilwoman leaned to her right and conferred with a younger man, before turning her attention back to the sheriff. “That’s what our lawyers tell us, too, but it doesn’t seem right,” she said.

The sheriff nodded to acknowledge her point. “Here’s how it was explained to me. If I owned an original copy of the Declaration of Independence, it would be mine to do with as I pleased. I could put an ad in the paper, stating my intention to stand in my driveway tomorrow and set it on fire, and nobody could stop me. Now, people could try. They could get some historical society to offer to buy it from me. The newspaper could run a scathing editorial trying to shame me out of the idea. Nevertheless, I am free to destroy my property if I see fit. Short of having the mound declared a Mississippi Landmark, or proving that there are human remains buried there, or ramming a last-minute law through the legislature—which might or might not even be possible—the Calhoun mound is his to destroy. Well, now, it’s his widow’s mound to destroy. It may not be right, but it’s the law.”

“We are not without political power,” the woman reminded the sheriff.

“Then use it. I don’t want to see that mound destroyed any more than you do.”

Turning her attention to Dr. Mailer, the councilwoman continued. “I understand that you’re in the county because you were contracted to do an archaeological survey for a proposed road construction project.”

“Yes. The highway department would like to straighten a dangerous curve, but there might be cultural materials in their way. My co-investigator, Dr. Nail, has documented some pretty good evidence that your ancestors used that spot as a lithics manufacturing site. Our preliminary work appears to confirm his suspicions.”